Chapter Text
It took another day and a half for Elrond’s fever to break, and another three for him to make it through most of the day without sleeping. The cough persisted stubbornly, but the crackling of his lungs had begun to lessen. Nevertheless, the healers had come to a strict conclusion that Elrond was to remain in their halls until his breathing was silent once more.
And so he did - without complaint. Camnir visited with books of stories and Círdan with those unwritten; Gil-galad with reports and notes that he did not mind lending a hand in and Galadriel with the news from gossips.
Elrond found that he still could not bear to be alone with her. The first time they had been, she had softly apologized about how far the business with the rings had gone. Still, she had expected one in return, and such as it was Elrond could not bring himself to speak it: not when she still did not apologize for obscuring Sauron from them. Even so she kept returning, but never alone. Not when they could so easily stir each other up and their ground was uneven, Elrond’s fight fading from him with the breath stolen from his lungs, chest painfully tight. She would always withdraw, then, eyes wide and visage paling.
But she would always be allowed to return. Elrond could feel the wounds she lapped at across her fëa just as well as he could feel the aching guilt that she wore as a cloak. He would not pry.
She would come to him when she was ready, and he would listen, then.
- - -
“Master Elrond, you have guests. The High King has requested Camnir’s absence, for a moment.”
Camnir smiled and bade farewell as he followed Nuréin out of the room, Elrond returning the gesture as he went. The sun had been bright and warm in recent days, and all the well-wishing bouquets and tenderly grown herbs in the nearby rooms were vibrant and healthy. Even the sea, Círdan claimed, had been peaceful of late, though Elrond could not help but wonder if he was missing something with the way Gil-galad and Galadriel had looked at each other upon the remark.
He set aside his novel as his king entered, followed by Galadriel and Círdan both, as though summoned. Shortly behind them and breathless as he burst in was a welcome if not surprising sight:
“Celebrimbor! You are safe, have come to Lindon?”
“He would not even get past formal greetings without inquiring after-”
Galadriel shook her head wearily as Celebrimbor cut her off, immediately sitting on the side of Elrond’s bed and cupping his cheeks in his hands, warm and worn as they always were.
“Gwanur, you live! When I received letter after letter all at once from the most agitated birds I have seen in at least a decade I already grew suspicious, but when I saw that not a one was penned in your hand?”
The smith touched their foreheads together, tension leaving his shoulders. “I had feared the worst. I could not bring myself to even read their contents before I made way for Lindon, leaving my apprentices in Annatar’s-”
“In Sauron’s care,” Galadriel murmured, lips thin. “We have since informed Celebrimbor of that which he did not read. Sauron has taken new form in Annatar - and while he may have the forge to himself, now, he does not have the brilliant mind behind it.”
“I had wished to wait until you were fully hale, Elrond, but… given the circumstances, and that you can once again speak with us plainly, I must ask this favor of you: What is it you have foreseen?”
When Elrond struggled to immediately answer his question, Ereinion set about pouring him a cup of tea, generous with honey both to sweeten it to his tastes and to keep his throat calm. Elrond took it from him gladly, enjoying the warmth that bled into his fingers upon holding it, staring into the confines as he recalled what he had seen.
A sigh. “You know that all that I see is true. Rare is it that I am given branching roads, and none were in these premonitions.”
Galadriel swept into a seat beside where Círdan lingered at the windows. Celebrimbor remained a steadying force at his side, Ereinion sitting his opposite.
“Indeed.” Ereinion’s voice was gentler, but he knew he could not truly soothe Elrond from a nightmare that had not yet come to pass. “Just as we know that you cannot lie about what you have seen, only evade and obscure that which you do not wish to share. To that, Elrond, I beseech you: we are listening to whatever it is you would share with us, now, and should there be parts you wish not to speak of, you do not have to.”
With such firm permission in hand, Elrond felt the knot in his chest finally loosen.
“As I last informed you, my king, these Elven rings are as pure as was thought. They are not corrupted by Sauron’s influence. Even so, I fear… I fear that these rings are the start of deep unrest in Middle-Earth. There will be more, and they will carry his taint.”
“I informed my fellow smiths that no more rings were to be made,” Celebrimbor frowned, heart heavy. “How - How many more? How far will they defy my order?”
Elrond sucked in a deep breath, teeth clenching tightly as frost outlined his exhale like dragon-smoke. Though they did not cloud completely, white draped over his eyes of stone in a manner disastrously uncanny to how they appeared when in a proper bout of foresight.
“Three rings for the Elven kings under the sky. Seven for the Dwarf lords in their halls of stone. Nine for the mortal men doomed to die. One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne. I, I-”
At the strangled noise, Ereinion steadied his herald, voice coaxing as he lifted the tea to his lips. “Á sucë, Elrond. Take your time.”
The peredhel heeded him, sucking in laborious breaths slowly, on his count, until his hands stopped trembling. Eyes clear, he shook his head, anguish lacing his tone.
“When the last ring, the One Ring, is made, all manners of peril will descend to ruin the lands. The Dwarven rings will corrupt, the rings for Men will damn, but that ring - it will bind all the others. When the time comes, even ours will not escape Sauron’s grasp if they are used too greatly. I would not have us become complacent now by relying wholly on their gifts.
“As you can see, I have healed without them.” There was no doubt in his voice, despite the weariness with which he spoke. “For that, I am glad. We must not allow them to dictate all our needs. They can perform miracles - and they may continue to do so, so long as time has not run out. But just as - just as the Silmarils before them, they have begun timers for war and death.”
Taking another sip, Elrond did not meet the eyes of his companions. “I have seen… death. I have seen life, in turn. I have seen these three rings sail West, and the hands which bear them. Know that I only recognize two of the three who carry them in the end, and that I… I bear Vilya. Nenya is worn still by Galadriel. Narya will be passed to new ownership once our future ally is known. Yet I… I…”
Eruptions of lava. So many bodies, both of Men and Elves.
“Only three of us will sail West. I have foreseen - so many corpses.”
“Yet these three rings go to Valinor,” Círdan restated, nodding nonchalantly as though Elrond had not admitted some terrible fate. “I can only imagine them doing such when they are no longer needed.”
Elrond swallowed his tears, returning with more of a head jerk than a fellow nod. “I-Indeed. He will not win. But the prices that all must pay to see such a victory are - incomprehensible. Impossibly arduous. I would not speak more on it.”
And true to their words, he was not asked to. Instead they discussed what they might do in this moment, with a future clearer than its present, and when it became obvious that Elrond’s mind still wandered on perilous imagery, slowly his visitors fell away to let him be. Celebrimbor made an excuse of making sure his room was properly minded, stating that he would bring Elrond dinner on his way back. Galadriel instead offered to see Círdan back to his own home, which the shipwright graciously accepted.
Elrond found himself let alone once more with Gil-galad, the king mirroring his solemn mood.
“You should have it. Vilya. It would be prudent to acquaint you sooner than later, with that which you have seen. Círdan had already offered to return Narya to me before we came in. I accepted.”
The blue ring was set down next to the drained teacup and vase of flowers. Elrond leaned back against his pillows, letting his eyes wander anywhere but over his friend.
“You saw beautiful things, too. Would sharing one bring levity back to your heart?”
Elrond sighed, considering. It would do well to not bring only ill tidings. He sifted through the scenes that did not pull at his bleeding heart, settling on one in particular.
“A set of peredhel twins. Two boys with dark hair and giddy smiles. They looked so similar to how Elros and I once did.”
Ereinion leaned forward at the quiet words, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. For a few moments, all was quiet, and Elrond knew that he had been seen through before he ever got a reply.
“Your children, no doubt. I take it you have chosen to share this because you do not believe I will ever see that future for myself?”
A thick swallow, stormy eyes threatening to rain once more. He would not speak it, though the thought danced in his mind’s eye: I know you will not.
“It will be a long time yet, my friend, before you see me defeated. I have full confidence that even should you be unable to alter the gruesome fates you saw, you shall yet stave them off as long you can."
“I fear I am not strong enough, my king. Ereinion. I am no hero or inspiration the likes of my lineage would have me be. I am no Lúthien nor Beren, no Fingolfin nor Thingol. I am not even Eärendil nor Elwing, despite these past weeks.”
Ereinion wrapped both colder hands in his own, steady and secure just as he had been when Elrond was still small, torn from his kin twice over, later thrice.
“Indeed, you are not. You are something perhaps even greater: you are Elrond.”
He could see the moon beginning its ascent through the window. Ereinion nodded to himself, reasserting his claim as the stars began to appear.:
“You are Elrond Peredhel, and all should be so lucky to ever have your counsel at hand.”
The hoots of nearby owls danced upon the wind.